


To the Waters and the Wild

by Fionn_Sgeul



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Especially when one of the people you respect most in the world seems to be in league with them?, Fae & Fairies, Gen, Mystery, The entire Marvel universe is one massive test of Phil Coulson's patience, What do you do when creepy supernatural beings are trying to send you on a treasure hunt?, Which may be infinite
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2020-12-28 22:47:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21144482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fionn_Sgeul/pseuds/Fionn_Sgeul
Summary: Phil Coulson is having a day. First, a mysterious raven steals his pen. Then he starts seeing a strange man out of the corner of his eye, a man who disappears every time Phil tries to look at him. And then things start to getreallyweird.He's starting to think he's being stalked. And whoever's stalking him, they are NOT normal.He's just trying to figure out how the hell he's going to explain this to Fury when Peggy Carter calls him to say it's cool — yes he's being stalked, but she sent them, they're old pals, and she wants him to make friends.And oh yeah, keep it secret from all of SHIELD. Never mind what that'll do to your job if SHIELD finds out.Well. At least now Phil knows for sure that the universe is out to get him for its own entertainment.





	1. The Vanishing Man

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "The Stolen Child" by W. B. Yeats.
> 
> I wanted to do an Avengers AU that played around with the Gaelic mythology -- something I live my life pretty immersed in, as a Gaelic-language teacher and storyteller. So I'm having myself a bit of fun. ; )

The first clue that Phil Coulson had that something was weird was when the raven stole his pen.

He wasn't actually sure it had _meant_ to steal it. It might have been his own fault for spooking it while the pen happened to be in its beak; he didn't know. But the upshot of it all was still that he was down his favourite pen.

What actually happened was that he came back to his office that afternoon to find a raven poking about on his desk.

Phil froze in the doorway, taken so completely off guard that he didn’t even know how to process.

He stared.

The bird seemed massive in the close quarters — it had to be two and a half feet tall, with a beak that looked like it could probably take off a finger if the raven had the mind to try.

Unaware of his presence, the raven continued to poke through the paper and bric-a-brac on Phil’s desk. It peered down at the papers beneath its claws, then hopped across to his mug and pecked it with a little _ting, ting, ting_, studying the “Office Ninja” legend on the side almost like it was trying to read it.

Phil took a slow, careful step into his office, a bubble of childlike awe in his chest to be so close to a beautiful wild animal. And it was beautiful, its eyes bright and curious, and its feathers a glossy black with a hint of blue and purple iridescence.

The raven caught its foot on something and stumbled, half-spreading its wings for balance. It looked down to find Phil’s favourite pen. It cocked its head, bent for a closer look at the pen, and then picked it up in its beak.

“Hey!” Phil protested involuntarily.

The raven spooked. It launched into the air in an explosion of inky black feathers, pen still in its beak. It whirled through the office, its massive, pounding wings seeming to take up the whole room. Phil ducked beneath them, feeling the draft of them blow across his face, and then the raven pulled its wings in and shot out through the open window.

Phil dashed after it, hoping to see his favourite pen dropped somewhere halfway accessible. But the raven vanished up into the sky, pen still clutched in its beak, and the _whoosh-whoosh-whoosh_ of its wings faded.

Phil leant out the window after it, trying to see past the big tree right outside to see where it had gone. But it was no good. The bird was gone, and his pen with it.

“For crying out loud,” he said incredulously to himself.

Served him right for leaving his window wide open, he supposed. He shouldn’t have, but it was the first really hot day of summer, and nobody had got the air conditioning up and running yet. The air in his office had been too hot and stuffy to be borne.

So he’d left the window open, thinking he might have a few leaves from the tree outside to deal with when he got back, maybe a confused pigeon at worst.

Pen-thieving ravens had never even crossed his mind.

Phil shut his window with a deep sigh, resigning himself to using substandard pens for the rest of the day. But then he thought of the raven’s bright, inquisitive eyes, and he smiled to himself.

Maybe it had been worth it, to get such an exceptionally good look at such an impressive creature.

***

Phil’s second clue came in the parking garage under the SHIELD building. He was returning to his car, keys jingling in hand. The place was dim, gloomy, and deserted; he’d worked late, so most people had already gone home.

One of the fluorescent lights near his car was flickering. Phil hit the button to unlock the car and turned to open the door.

There was a man.

Phil’s mind registered the shape in the corner of his eye — on the other side of his car, near the rear bumper — and his head jerked up.

No one was there.

Phil stared, his heartbeat settling back down. He scanned his surroundings, then took a few quick steps check around his car. Nothing. He took a few more steps to peer around a nearby pillar, just to be sure.

No one. Nothing.

Phil took a breath, trying to settle himself. Just his imagination. The human brain did that sometimes, especially to people who had faced real danger. If it caught some flicker of movement or odd shape just out of the corner of its eye, it jumped to a conclusion and sent out an alarm.

It made sense, really, from a survival standpoint. Better to send out an alert over nothing than to miss a lion about to pounce on you out of the bushes. Or, in Phil’s case, a possible enemy agent about to pull a trigger.

But there were no enemy agents here. Just Phil’s own over-tired brain. Time to get home and put his feet up for a while. He got in his car, started the engine, and put it in drive.

As he drove out of the garage, he saw a man standing between a car and a pillar — hunched, hands stuffed in the pockets of a dark blue coat. Then the pillar was between them. Phil looked back over his shoulder, trying to get another look. The changing angle gave him a brief clear view … but he couldn’t see anyone.

***

Phil’s third clue was so subtle that he can certainly be forgiven for having missed it. He pulled into the parking lot for his condominium and got out of his car, vaguely aware of the whoosh of bird wings overhead.

He glanced in the sound’s direction and glimpsed what he assumed to be a large crow vanishing between the leaves of one of the oak trees along the edge of the lot. Or maybe it was a raven, thought some back part of his mind. There seemed to be ravens about today…

But most of his mind was thinking about how nice it was to have the sun still in the sky when he got home. That was one of the nice things about summer, even though he disliked getting hot and sticky in his suit all day…

He never noticed the bright, beady eyes of the raven watching him through the oak leaves. He never spotted his favourite pen in its beak.

He missed the third clue.

***

The fourth clue was much more obvious. He was in his condo, heating up some leftovers for dinner, when he heard heavy footsteps in the hallway outside.

This in itself was not terribly unusual. The door wasn’t all that well soundproofed, and there was a big heavy guy who lived down at the end of Phil’s hallway. Phil sometimes heard him go past in the evening, and could tell by the cadence of his steps whether he’d been out drinking or not. (The footsteps, and also whether or not he was singing. The singing was another big clue.)

But these steps were measured, even … and stopped right outside Phil’s door.

Phil paused in taking his dish out of the microwave, listening. He waited for the steps to continue, or for a knock to come at his door. The silence stretched on, but Phil could _feel _that there was _someone there._

Slowly, silently, he set the hot dish and towel down on the counter and turned towards the door and the presence that lurked outside it.

He took a step towards it. Outside the door, the footsteps started again, moving away. Urgency surged through Phil’s chest, and he darted to the door.

Surely he was being paranoid — it was probably just his neighbour, who for some reason had paused outside Phil’s door. But he needed to _know_.

He opened the door and leant out. The footsteps hadn’t had time to get even halfway to the end of the hall, and Phil hadn’t heard any of the other doors open. But the hallway was empty.

He looked both ways several times. The hallway was still empty. And there was nowhere to hide.

Phil tried to tell himself that the guy had dashed down around the corner or had ducked into one of the other condos on the hall. But … he would have heard that. He would have heard feet pounding. He would have heard the heavy condo door close, heard the air pressure change.

He hadn’t.

Unease prickled up his spine and spread out across his shoulders. This time, he didn’t think he was imagining things.

He stepped back into his condo, shut the door, and threw the big, heavy extra deadbolt he’d had installed when he moved in.

***

Phil stewed while he ate. He turned the day over in his head, and the more he did, the more he started to wonder whether he had in fact been imagining things in the parking garage. And the raven … was the raven a coincidence?

He considered calling SHIELD. But what would he tell them? _“A bird stole my pen, and now I think a disappearing man might be following me_.”

Nick would take him seriously. But Nick was away, and Phil wasn’t at all sure anyone else would. Not without something a little more tangible to go on.

In the end, Phil decided to wait until the next morning and see if he still felt spooked … and see whether anything else happened.

Before he went to bed, he double-checked the lock on the door, and then went around and made sure every window was closed and locked. He glanced out several times into the dimming twilight, checking for anything odd.

He didn’t see the strange figure of a man in a blue coat with a raven perched on his shoulder, despite the fact that the man was standing right in the middle of the grassy courtyard below Phil’s window. But that wasn’t Phil’s fault. No one else saw them either.

***

Twice that night, Phil woke up thinking he heard footsteps. But when he opened his eyes and listened, he heard nothing. So it might have just been dreams.

***

The fifth clue was less a clue and more the final nail in the coffin of _I'm imagining things_. Phil came out of the bedroom the next morning and nearly had a heart-attack when he walked straight into something that _shouldn’t be there._

He jerked back, reaching for the gun that of course, in his undershirt and boxers, he wasn’t wearing, and only then realised that what was touching him was _leaves_.

He blinked at them — a great green mass of leaves, from waist-height to face-height. He grabbed one — a group of six leaves all radiating off a central stem. His mind identified: umbrella tree. He had one on a little table in the hall outside his bedroom, but not nearly … this … big….

He ducked down to peer under the leaves. The massive umbrella tree was growing out of a familiar red pot sitting on a familiar little table.

It was Phil’s umbrella tree. And it had somehow ballooned from a manageable little bunch of leaves to something that filled the whole hallway, _overnight_.

…That was not natural. That was _seriously_ not natural.

Phil stared at the umbrella tree for a good two minutes before deciding that, whatever the hell this was, he wasn’t facing it with unbrushed teeth.

He had to push through its branches to get to the bathroom.

Unease had been sitting in his gut since the footsteps last night. Now, while he stood there trying to brush his teeth like everything was normal, the unease spread to prickle all over his skin. He couldn’t stop glancing over his shoulder at the plant, like he was expecting it to start growing in through the door and taking over the bathroom.

But it just sat there innocently, not moving a leaf.

He had to push through the plant again to get out of the hall to the rest of the condo. He emerged into his living room and froze.

He’d momentarily forgotten that the umbrella tree was not his only houseplant. He had another — a pot of English ivy that he kept on a table at the end of the couch. He’d cut it back last week so its little reaching feelers only just dangled over the edge of the table.

They now reached halfway along the couch and well out into the middle of the living room rug.

And then, as Phil stood there trying to come up with a logical or even illogical explanation, he heard footsteps. Heavy footsteps, coming _thump, thump, thump_ along the hallway towards his door.

Phil, already keyed up to the point that he was half-expecting his own houseplants to attack him, went scrambling to find his gun.

He dived back through the umbrella tree and into his room, where he snatched his gun out of a drawer in his bedside table. As he turned to go back, he heard his letter-slot rattle, and something papery hit the floor.

Phil could hear the footsteps retreating he pushed back through the umbrella tree and dashed for the door. He unlocked the bolts, undid the chain, and wrenched it open.

The heavy feet in the hall had had even less time to disappear this time. The corridor was just as empty.

Phil stepped slowly back into his condo, staring into space as he let the door drift shut. Its heavy thump startled him out of his daze. He tried to swallow — his throat was dry, and he felt strangely cold. With sharp, quick movements, he relocked his door, with both bolts and the chain.

Then he looked down at the envelope sitting on his mat. A real, tangible object — was that proof that he wasn’t losing his mind?

The paper was cream-coloured with a pattern of ivy around the edge. Phil picked it up between two fingers, with all the grimacing care of a man handling an unexploded bomb.

A shrill noise cut the air. Phil’s whole body jerked, his heart leaping up to wedge in his throat. The envelope flew out of his hand and halfway across the room, landing amid the real ivy leaves on the living room rug.

It was only when the envelope hit the floor that Phil’s mind caught up to reality enough to realise that the shrill noise was his cell phone. He lowered his gun, vaguely embarrassed.

With one more wary glance at the envelope, he went over to where his phone was trilling away on the kitchen table. He didn’t recognise the number on the call display. He hesitated a long moment before answering it.

Truth be told, he was more than a bit worried about who might be at the other end.

Phil used all his skills at unflappability to school his voice. “Hello?”

“Agent Coulson,” said a clipped, aged voice that shot straight to deep-seated memories of his early days at SHIELD.

Phil’s back and shoulders straightened automatically at the sound of that voice. “Director Carter?”

“As once was,” she agreed. “Just Mrs Carter now.”

Peggy Carter was calling him. Why was Peggy Carter calling him? She had to be pushing ninety now.<strike></strike>

He considered asking how she’d got his number, but then thought better of it. Once a spy, always a spy. As he remembered her, either she wouldn't tell him, or she would, and the answer would be something so embarrassingly obvious that he'd feel silly for having asked.

Instead, he asked, “Why are you calling?”

“Because there is something I must ask of you,” said Director Carter. "Do you think you could do a favour for an old woman?"

"Most likely," said Phil, glancing nervously at the envelope and wondering what on earth she might want to ask of _him_. "What is it?"

Director Carter paused, and when next she spoke, her voice suddenly aged and creaked. “There is … a torch I've been carrying for a long, long while now, and the time has finally come to find someone to pass it on to.”

Phil stood up straighter, a tingle running up his spine. “What do you mean? What kind of torch?”

Her sigh came over the phone as a rush of static. “A secret. A secret that I’ve been keeping for sixty-five years.” She sounded so old and tired. “I feared that I would take it to my grave. But now, at long last, the time has come to pass it on.”

Phil slowly sat himself on his couch, his mind rushing through the calculations. Sixty-five years ago … was 1945. The year Captain America had gone down in that plane, taking Hydra with him. Any secret from that year … it had to be big.

“Why now?” Phil asked. “Why me?”

“You I chose for several reasons,” said Director Carter, her voice again crisp. “Foremost, because your loyalty is beyond question, and yet you are not afraid to bend the rules when you feel it’s the right thing to do.”

“Plenty of agents will do that,” objected Phil. And that was true; he’d told three of them off just last week.

“Maybe so,” said Carter, amused. “But few do it with enough good judgement to stay out of trouble and rise through the ranks. You do.”

Phil took a steadying breath. So far, the direction of this conversation was worrying. “So you chose me for my excellent judgement in rule-breaking?”

He could hear the smile in her voice. “Partly. And partly for the other things they say about you.”

Uh-oh. “What other things?”

“You have a reputation, Agent Coulson,” Carter said with amusement. “You are adaptable, unflappable, and deal with anything and everything thrown your way. One of SHIELD’s finest, they say.”

In other circumstances, Phil might have taken a moment to be pleased with his reputation. But right now, he was too busy worrying about what kind of trouble it was about to get him into.

“What are you asking me to do, Mrs Carter?” he asked.

Her answer came straight and blunt. “I’m asking you to go behind SHIELD’s back and take on a couple of my former contacts. …Or perhaps assets would be a better word, though don’t let them hear you call them that; they won’t like it.”

“Contacts you’ve had since nineteen forty-five?” he said, allowing disbelief to colour his voice.

“Not exactly,” said Carter, and Phil was sure that she was smirking. He waited, but she didn't elaborate.

"Why don't you want SHIELD to know about them?" he asked. "Why are they secret?"

"Because they won't talk to you if they aren't," Carter said with flat amusement. "We — myself and Colonel Phillips — gained their trust and their help by keeping them absolutely secret. They never went in any official records, and the only people who knew the truth were those who had to. And in return, they worked with us — they helped us."

Her voice dropped lower, softer. "I'm not sure we would have survived without them. I'm not sure we would have won."

Phil's mind was still stuck on one point. "You can't be talking about people you knew back in the war. They'd be ancient by now."

"Are you calling me ancient?" said Carter, clearly amused. "Never mind; I certainly am. But you should be careful. As any good detective will tell you, it's always your assumptions that lead you astray."

And then, before he could try to pry out of her which of his assumptions were wrong, she asked him, "So, will you do it?"

Phil's first answer was silence. His mind spun. Then he said, "You never said why now. What's happened that now is the time to pass on the torch?"

Her voice faded and creaked with weariness. “Something has come back. Something that has been gone for a very long time … so long that I feared it might never return.”

Phil scrunched his brow. “You feared it _wouldn’t_ return?”

"Yes." Her whisper came through on a rush of static. "But they have … and now I can rest." Her voice was fading, and Phil had the sudden, unsettling feeling that _she_ was fading.

He didn't know why, but that made up his mind. He shut his eyes and damned the torpedoes. "What do I need to do?"

"Follow the clues," her soft, faint voice told him. "Solve the puzzle. They won't talk to you until you prove yourself."

His eyes again fell on the envelope on his floor. Suddenly things connected in his mind. "Clues … you wouldn't happen to mean a mysterious envelope stuck through my door by a disappearing man, would you?"

A soft, gusty laugh. "Read it. Go where it tells you to go. It will lead you to answers."

"And you won't tell me any more about these people than that?" Phil said plaintively, rubbing his face.

"Not yet," said Carter, amused again. "You still need to prove yourself — to me, and, more importantly, to them."

Phil peeled open the envelope and shook open the folded sheet of paper within. The message on it was handwritten in elegant, loopy, old-fashioned script. He squinted to read it.

_The raven flies through cloudy skies_

_At the dimming of the day._

_And if the light is lost to sight, _

_The raven knows the way._

_Follow the raven to find the haven_

_Of secrets hidden well._

_What Carter knew we'll pass to you_

_If you promise not to tell._

And then below that was an address — Phil vaguely recognised the street name as being on the outskirts of DC, in an area he thought was run down and slated for development.

"They've given me an address," he told Carter.

"Excellent," she said softly. "Agent Coulson, I have just two more things to tell you. First, when you go there … wear something you don't mind getting dirty."

Phil grimaced. "…And second…?"

Carter's voice had faded so low he could barely hear it. "The corner of your eye … that's where you see them. Out of the corner of your eye…. Good luck, Agent Coulson."

The line went dead.


	2. The Druids' Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil wars with himself over whether to trust Peggy Carter and keep secrets from SHIELD, or do his actual job and report all this. And all the while, he's being lured farther and farther down the rabbit hole...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a bit distracted by a possibly unwise attempt at NaNoWriMo for the last week or so. That might slow down my progress on this story ... but then again it might not, because I keep coming over to it when the novel starts driving me crazy.

On a bench outside Phil’s apartment building sat a man in a blue coat.

Phil caught him out of the corner of his eye as he shoulder-checked to pull his car out onto the street. The shape and colour, the coat, pinged his recognition. He turned to look properly.

The bench was empty.

Unease crawled up Phil’s spine and spread across his shoulders. Carter's words echoed in his head — _the corner of your eye_. Whatever the hell was going on here, it was not natural, and it was really starting to creep him out.

His mind was whirling. He didn’t know what to do. Should he trust Peggy Carter? Should he listen to her and keep all this secret?

There were so many reasons not to. He was an agent of SHIELD; his first loyalty should be to his agency. It was his job, his duty. And even if he left that aside, Phil prided himself on being one of the very few people in the entire world that Nick Fury trusted. And that trust sure as hell wouldn’t be helped by Phil keeping dangerous secrets from him.

But … but … but … this was Peggy Carter. She had _founded_ SHIELD, along with Howard Stark. The two of them had written the rulebook for what SHIELD was and how it should operate. If Carter had kept this secret — these contacts — out of the books for all this time … she must have had a reason.

And Phil, to be bluntly honest, was _desperate_ to know the truth. …And, for the moment, it looked like his best chance of doing that … was keeping things to himself. At least for a bit.

His conscience panged, but he reminded it that he couldn’t tell Fury just now anyway. The man was away terrifying the SHIELD offices in California into a major reorganisation, and he had left specific instructions that he not be interrupted for anything short of a potential apocalypse.

Phil had the better part of a week before Fury got back. When he did … then Phil would make his decision.

***

A shadow passed over Phil as he stepped out of the parking garage. He heard the beating of wings, but the bird was already out of sight when he looked up.

He wondered if it was a raven.

He took the message out of his pocket and read it again, puzzling over the poem and committing the address to memory.

…Did he dare just walk off work to do this? It would be easy; all he'd have to do was say that the director had asked him to run an errand. With Fury away, no one would question that. And it was even, technically, almost the truth.

But if anyone found out … if Fury found out… It would risk Phil's position as one of Fury's most trusted lieutenants. And, more importantly, it would be a break of trust between friends.

And what if, despite Carter's assurances, Phil was walking into danger here?

Safely in his office, Phil dropped into his chair, shut his eyes, and took a long, deep breath. Ancient though she was, he didn't think Carter would lead him wrong. And Fury would definitely forgive him for one afternoon. It was only if Phil carried this further that trouble might start.

He'd slip out after lunch, he decided. Stop by his apartment to change out of his suit, and then…

A shadow flickered past his window. Phil leaned over to peer out. A raven was perched in the tree, settling its wings, one beady eye turned towards Phil.

…And then Phil was going to find out what the hell was really going on here.

***

The slam of Phil’s car door echoed through the desolate, empty parking lot. A warm breeze blew through his hair and stirred the weeds and bushes growing up through the pavement.

No one had cared about this place for a long time.

He looked around himself with a sinking heart. The old SHIELD base consisted of three separate buildings that he could see, and none of them small. Searching all of this was going to take way more than an afternoon.

Phil heaved a sigh and pulled out the note again. “You couldn’t have given me a little more to go on?” he asked the wind.

Somewhere high above him, he heard the croaking call of a raven. He looked up. The black bird wheeled above him.

Then it tucked its wings and dived, swooping in a great, graceful arc to alight on the edge of one of the buildings. Directly above a door. Then it turned to look at him.

Phil swallowed, glancing down at the note. Certain lines jumped out at him.

_The raven knows the way. Follow the raven…_

He took a steadying breath as he folded up the note and tucked it back in his pocket. “Right then,” he said to himself. “That way.”

It made him oddly nervous to approach the raven. It stood over the door, the wind ruffling its feathers, watching him.

Phil wondered how hard it was to train a raven.

Then he wondered whether training had anything to do with it.

As he came up to the door, the raven croaked and vanished over the edge of the roof. Phil looked down at the door. The lock looked serviceable, but he didn’t have a key. But one of Phil’s skills in life was not needing a key.

It only took him two minutes of fiddling with lockpicks before the lock gave a promising _click_. Anticipation and nerves crackled in Phil’s gut. He took hold of the handle, took a breath, and opened it.

The door creaked as it opened, and little bits of dirt fell from all around its frame. Stale, musty air washed over Phil. He breathed it in and cautiously stepped into the gloom.

He stood dead still for the minute it took his eyes to adjust. The room had once been a lobby, but it was completely empty now, the floor scuffed and dirty, the wallpaper beginning to peel around the edges.

Phil had half-expected something to be waiting for him in the gloom, but the room was empty, and there was nowhere to hide. He took a few steps farther in.

He could see the marks on the floor where the front desk had been. On either side of it were hallways leading farther in. Dim light shone through dirty windows on either side of the door he’d come through, and from others down the hallways.

Phil headed for the empty space once occupied by the front desk. On the wall beyond it, a decrepit old cork board was nailed to the wall. A rectangle of white caught Phil’s eye. It was stuck in the corner of the board. He went for a closer look.

It was an envelope. An envelope with a border of curling ivy. Phil caught his breath and gently plucked it out.

Inside was another message, written in the same elegant, flourishing hand.

_Twelve paces towards rising fire,_

_Seven towards the church’s spire,_

_Twenty towards the big oak tree,_

_And two towards the distant sea._

_Then break through the hardened clay_

_To find the next step on your way._

Phil read it through twice, his heartbeat picking up with excitement. They were directions, directions leading him somewhere, like in a treasure hunt. As a child, he had adored treasure hunts. His mother had put one together for him every birthday.

_Rising fire_ — easy enough. That had to be the sunrise, right? So east. But the church’s spire…

Phil bit his lip, glancing around. He made a quick decision and turned around to dart back out the door.

Outside, he squinted up at the thin layer of cloud between him and the sun, gauging its position to get a clearer reading on east. Then he pulled his set of little binoculars out of his pocket and scanned the horizon for a church’s spire.

There! He spotted it, a far-away sharp spike just visible in the gap between this building and the next one. He judged it to be almost directly north of his location.

As he lowered the binoculars, he thought he caught a flicker of a human figure — a glimpse of blue, out of the corner of his eye, just at the corner of one of the other buildings. But he looked, and it was gone.

Phil took a steadying breath and told himself not to think about it. He looked back at the note, then brought up his binoculars again, this time in search of an oak tree.

He scanned in almost a complete circle before spotting the fluff of green leaves poking up over the other side of the building. He zoomed in — yes, those looked like oak leaves, and … yup, that was a raven, swooping down to land in its branches. He took careful note of the tree’s position, which was to the west.

That just left the sea. Phil pulled up the map function on his phone, zooming way out until he could see in which direction the ocean was closest. It was to the northeast.

Phil grinned to himself. Now with his headings, he dug in his inner pockets until he found his little emergency compass. It was times like this that he was glad he was always overprepared.

Back in the building, he stood in front of the spot where he’d found the envelope and balanced his compass in his hand. The needle swung, wavered, and then settled. Phil turned east.

East led him down the hallway to the right. He measured his paces carefully, counting aloud. “One … two … three … four … five…”

Twelve paces took him to right in front of a door, which was — he checked his compass — on the north side. The door was ajar, and it glided open at Phil’s touch, creaking softly.

It opened into a large, long room that stretched far away to Phil’s right. He scanned it. Aside from a few decrepit old tables and chairs, it was as empty as the previous one. Slowly, carefully, he walked in, counting his strides.

Seven paces took him to the middle of this end of the room. He checked the compass and turned west. It aimed him straight to the other end of the long room. But … Phil leaned forward and peered through the dirty windows.

Through the two windows near the far left corner, he could see a large tree. He was prepared to bet money it was the oak. Phil glanced from the tree to the far door and back again, biting his lip. If he aimed directly west, it would take him through the door at the far end of the room. But if he aimed straight for the tree, it would take him into the corner, about ten feet to the left of the door. Was that deliberate? Was he supposed to be aiming for the corner, or the door?

Phil debated for a minute, then decided to trust his instructions. He set out, counting paces.

Twenty paces — twenty yards — as expected, took him right into the corner. He looked out the window at the great oak, then checked his compass one more time. North-east. North-east took him along to wall towards the door. Two paces would get him about halfway there.

Phil took a deep breath, then took two large steps and turned to face the wall.

He was faced with blank, exposed brick.

…Hang on, _brick_.

He pulled out the note again, checking the wording. _Then break through the hardened clay_. Hardened clay — bricks were made of fired clay. He laid a hand against them, feeling their roughness beneath his fingertips. One patch of mortar was a slightly paler grey than the rest of it, like someone had knocked a hole in the wall at some point, and then patched it…

Whatever he was here for, it was hidden inside this wall.

…He had a crowbar in the trunk of his car, didn’t he? You never knew when you might need a crowbar.

Phil went dashing back to his car.

He never saw the two figures who sat side by side on the roof of the building, watching him.

“That was quick,” said one, reluctantly impressed.

Her companion chuckled, tucking his hands into the pockets of his blue coat. “Well, Peggy recommended him for a reason.”

***

It took Phil half an hour to dig his way through the bricks, chipping slowly away at the mortar and levering with his crowbar. It might have been faster if he hadn’t felt the need to look over his shoulder every two minutes, convinced he could feel eyes watching him somewhere in the gloom.

No amount of telling himself the watchers were benign, were friends of Peggy Carter, would make the shivers stop crawling up his spine and over his shoulders.

At last he got a brick loose, opening a pitch-black hole. There was definitely a cavity in there. He pulled out his pocket flashlight and shone it in.

The hole wasn’t big enough. He couldn’t see anything — he was probably too high. He’d have to take out more bricks.

He set to work again, taking a moment to be grateful that Carter had warned him not to wear a suit. He was already covered in mortar dust, and he was starting to work up a sweat.

The second brick came out easier than the first, and the third was easier still. Finally Phil had enough space to get his whole arm in there. He stopped digging and pulled out his flashlight, and with the feeling of watching eyes burning on the back of his neck, he shone it in.

The beam of his flashlight fell on a dusty box.

It was too big to get out through the hole, but with a minute or two of reaching and scrabbling, Phil managed to get the lid off. Then he shoved the full length of his arm into the hole and reached inside.

His fingers met paper, but thick, heavy, almost cardboard — a file folder?

He got a grip on it very carefully, so none of the papers inside would spill out. He pulled it up out of the box, then turned it sideways, and gently manoeuvred it out through the bricks.

Phil knew from first glance that the file was old. Just the weight and colour of the folder was enough to tell him that; they didn’t make file folders like this anymore, so heavy and sturdy. And the label on it was old, discoloured, and read: _The Good Neighbours._

The label made a new tendril of unease run through Phil’s insides. It reminded him of something, but he couldn't think what … some old story his grandmother had told him… And the file was thin; it couldn’t have more than a dozen sheets of paper in it.

Before he opened it, though, Phil stuck his hand back through the hole and into the box, feeling around into all the corners to be sure he hadn’t missed anything. His fingers knocked into something small that rattled against the side of the box. It was cold to the touch. Phil pulled it out.

It was a stone, a flat one about the half the size of the palm of his hand. Phil frowned at it and turned it over, examining it from every angle. It was a plain, pale grey and would have been entirely uninteresting, except that it had a hole through it — what looked like a natural hole, worn through by time and the elements.

Not sure what else to do with it, Phil tucked it away in his pocket. Then he opened the file, and his world turned upside down.

***

**Faeries, AKA Fairies, the Fair Folk, the Hill Folk, the Gentry, the Good Neighbours, the Shee**

_A magical race with a supernatural ability to avoid notice. May be immortal — their own explanations of their lifespans make no kind of chronological sense. Powerful, mischievous, and not to be trifled with. _

_If the word “fairy” paints in your mind the image of a tiny, fluttering pixie with butterfly wings, banish that image now. These beings are much darker and more dangerous, and perfectly capable of passing as human when it pleases them._

Phil read through the file with a sense of profound unreality, as if he were in a dream. It was the sort of thing that didn’t belong in the real world, that couldn’t be true. And yet…

Under the heading of “Powers,” several paragraphs jumped out at him:

_Many are elementals, each with an affinity for and the ability to control one or more elements of the natural world. One common sign of their presence is the sudden and rapid growth of plant life._

_Many are shapeshifters with the ability to change their form into that of animals or birds. Each individual has his or her own shapeshifting repertoire, which may consist only one or two alternate forms, or many, based on personal talent and ability._

_They also commonly possess the ability to communicate with animals and may convince them to do their bidding. Because of this, it can be difficult to tell if an animal acting strangely is working for a faerie or is actually a faerie in disguise._

Phil didn’t want to believe in it, didn’t want to take it seriously, but…

It all fit a little too well.

_Besides shapeshifting, faeries can also disguise themselves with illusions known as 'glamours.' In this way, they can make themselves and their abodes look like whatever they want. More skilled practitioners may be able to deceive the ear as well as the eye._

_Because of a combination of shapeshifting and illusions, faeries are almost impossible to spot should they choose to hide themselves in the human population. In their true forms, they usually have pointed ears, thick and sharp fingernails, and very sharp canine teeth. When in disguise, however, often the only telling feature is an undefinable eerie quality about the eyes — though there may also be a lingering sharpness about the teeth; because of the nature of their composition, teeth are apparently difficult to shapeshift._

_An offshoot of their shapeshifting is the ability to alter their size at will. They can shrink themselves to as small as six inches, and they can grow to the height of at least twelve feet, possibly taller. When asked exactly where the extra mass goes or comes from, one faerie claimed that it was gathered from or dissipated into the surrounding air. But the actual phenomenon has not yet been observed, so this claim is not confirmed._

The file went on to talk about the dangerous, hypnotic qualities of faerie music, and the great faerie propensity to try to lure humans away and play tricks on them. It was, Director Carter said in the file (for Phil was sure, from the British spellings, that the writer had been her), one of the great forms of faerie entertainment. It told of faerie changelings left in place of human children — a practice largely out of fashion, according to Peggy. It told of the "Otherworld," some sort of parallel dimension or mirror world in which the faeries spent most of their time. And then there was this alarming section:

** _Warnings:_ **

_Do not give them your name. Knowing your name allows them to lay curses and spells upon you, and it also makes it much easier for them to pull the wool over your eyes with glamour. Conversely, should you ever be so lucky as to learn a faerie’s name, you can use it to break their spells, banish them, and convince them to leave you and yours alone._

_Do not attempt to observe a faerie in private moments or to unravel the secrets of their magic or culture. They take extreme exception to peeping toms and to mortals attempting to stick their noses into faerie secrets. All you will know is what they choose to share with you. Attempts to dig deeper may get you killed … or cursed into spending the rest of your life as a badger._

_When meeting a faerie, never ask, “What’s your name?” Names are sacred and powerful, always kept secret by their bearers, and thus such a question is offensive and rude. Instead, ask, “What are you called?” or “What should I call you?” This requests a nickname — of which faeries invariably have a large collection — rather than a True Name, and as such is safe to ask._

_Do not thank a faerie, not unless you know them well. To thank them is to admit that you owe them a debt, which is an opening of which they are nearly certain take advantage._

_Good manners pay very well when dealing with faeries, while bad manners will get you rejected at best, and left to die of a slow, wasting disease at worst. Be always respectful. And get to know them very well before you risk even playful insults._

_If you even suspect that a tree or grove or other natural feature is special to a faerie, do not interfere with it. If you do, they will make your life hell. If this means the road must be built around it, then build the road around it._

_Faeries are vicious, bordering on bloodthirsty, when confronted by liars and oathbreakers. Never get caught in a lie by one. And if you make a promise to one, keep it._

_Also, be warned that, while they rarely lie themselves, they can be masterfully misleading in how they present the truth. And if there is a loophole to be found in a promise or agreement, they will find it._

Then there was one more interesting section:

** _The Druids' Glass_ **

_AKA witch stone, adder stone, hag stone_

_The druids' glass is a stone through which natural erosion has worn a hole. By looking through the hole, such stones may allow you to see through enchantments and illusions, and carrying one of them acts as a protection against malicious charms._

_I am not sure whether simply any stone with a naturally worn hole will do this, or if the stone must be blessed or enchanted first. My faerie sources were deliberately vague and evasive. _

_Two such stones have come into my possession. I am leaving one with this file for the use of whoever finds it. It used to belong to Captain America._

Phil let the file drop against his lap, shoving his hand into his pocket to dig out the stone. He examined it again, with much more interest this time — had this little lump of rock really belonged to his hero? And could it really have — he struggled to wrap his mind around the concept — supernatural properties?

He held it up and peered through, looking down the long room.

What he saw made him drop it.

As the stone had passed in front of his eye, the room before him had changed. Something large and colourful appeared in the middle of the room, and then vanished again as the stone fell from Phil's eye.

Phil snatched for the fallen stone, catching it before it hit the floor. Then he froze, staring hard at the room. He memorised the position of every table and chair, then slowly, cautiously, raised the stone to his eye.

It was like looking through a tiny window into another world. The whole ambient colour of the room was different — richer, brighter. And in the centre of the room stood the light's source.

Phil at first took the source to be a string of little Christmas lights strung around a table — a table that was, for some reason, _covered _in plants. Creepers and vines crawled up the legs and over the surface, around patches of bright, rich green moss.

Then he realised the lights weren't Christmas lights; they were _flowers_ — flowers growing on the creepers. They were shaped like stars, and glowed in colours of white, blue, purple, and a rich, warm pink.

Phil's lungs felt strangely tight. He lowered the stone, and it all vanished, leaving just the bare, battered table. Even the light cast by the flowers was gone. He raised the stone again, and there it all was, shining innocently before him.

It … looked like something straight out of a fantasy movie. It looked like special effects. It looked like an _illusion_ … but this stone was supposed to let you see _through_ illusions. It was supposed to reveal what was _really_ there.

Slowly, carefully, not taking his eyes off the impossible table, Phil tucked the file under his arm and climbed to his feet. He approached the table as cautiously as he would approach an unexploded bomb.

The table did not explode as Phil got close to it. Which was nice, he appreciated that. But it also didn't get any less real. The details stood out sharper and clearer, looking more and more real and solid the closer he got.

He noticed that, in the exposed sections of wood around the edges of the table, runes were carved. He leaned down to peer through the stone at them. They weren't any runic alphabet he recognised. He wondered if they were what was making the table invisible. Then he turned his attention to the beautiful, glowing flowers.

Phil considered for a moment. Then, taking a deep breath in case this was a stupid idea, he reached out to touch one of the leaves.

Through the hole in the stone, he saw the leaf between his fingers. And he felt it — felt its smooth, cool texture. Then he moved the stone away from his eye.

Between his fingers was a scrap of newspaper, dangling over the edge of the table. It looked real, felt real — dry, papery newspaper.

He raised the stone. Smooth, green leaf. He tried holding the stone right up to his eye and, instead of closing the other eye, he looked at the scene with one eye looking through the stone and the other just looking straight.

It gave him such weird, double vision of the scene before him — left eye seeing table and newspaper, right eye seeing ivy and glowing flowers — that he immediately began to feel sick. He lowered the stone quickly.

Then he shut both eyes and tried to just _feel_.

At first he wasn't sure if the material between his fingers was dry and papery or smooth and leafy. But then he followed its shape further back, exploring, and … that was a stem, and other leaves brushing against him, and the softer petals of a flower.

Which had to mean that the impossible scene was the real one.

Phil fixed the image of the ivy and flowers in his mind, _knew_ it to be real, and opened his eyes. He expected to see the empty table again, but the image behind his eyes melded straight into the reality before him. He wasn't looking through the stone, but still he saw the ivy, the flowers, and their light lending a gentle, coloured glow to the room all around him.

Phil blinked at it. He brushed his hand through the ivy. The leaves and flowers bobbed and waved around his fingers. They were … oddly charming, for alarming, unnatural flora that should not exist. He held one of the flowers in his hand. It felt … warm, soft. Phil let it go and looked over the table, admiring it in spite of himself.

Dead centre of the table, a white envelope sat on a cushion of moss.

Phil froze, then darted forward to snatch it with the hand still clutching the stone. Written on the envelope was: _Congratulations — you've seen through our glamour!_

And inside…

_Well done today, I've got to say;  
You've seen through our illusion.  
But there is more we have in store  
Before we reach conclusion._

_We walk in mist, by shadows kissed,  
Unseen by mortal eyes.  
But you may learn, if trust you earn,  
To see through our disguise._

_The next clue that waits for you  
Is tucked away and sealed.  
It's in a case used for the face  
Of one who built a shield._

Great, thought Phil, more riddles. Ordinarily, he liked riddles, but his mind was feeling a bit overwhelmed to deal with them right now.

At least the first two verses were pretty clear — and also encouraging. If he could learn to see through all this creepy illusionary weirdness, he would feel _so_ much better about this.

As for the last verse … it seemed to point pretty plainly to Peggy Carter. So plainly, in fact, that Phil began to doubt it, examining it for other possible interpretations. None immediately presented themselves.

Phil sighed, dragging a hand down his face and staring at the impossible table through his fingers. Well, whether Peggy Carter had the next clue or not, he needed to talk to her. He had so many questions trying to burn holes in his brain.

Starting with: _Is this for fucking real?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Druids' Glass is a real thing, incidentally. I think they're usually called adder stones or witch stones in English, but I'm used to the Gaelic term Glainne/Gloine nan Draoidh, which translates as "Druids' Glass," so I used that. (Glass as in spyglass or magnifying glass, by the way -- something you look through to see better. There isn't any actual glass in a Druids' Glass, unless it's naturally occurring in the rock itself.)

**Author's Note:**

> Haven't done much poetry before, but I kinda had fun with it. I might do more. : ) Peggy and Phil's conversation was bloody hard, though. I don't even know how many times I went through it, and I'm still not totally happy. But, eh, I guess it will do.


End file.
